


Down to a sunless sea

by hope_calaris



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_calaris/pseuds/hope_calaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Tuesday when Eames is done putting up with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down to a sunless sea

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The moment unicorns are real, I make money with this. Title was taken from Coleridge's "Kubla Khan"

It’s a Tuesday when Eames is done putting up with it. He’s lived with this shit for three months. He shrugged off the futile wait for e-mails, he didn’t dwell too much about calls going straight to voice mail, he stored all the returned letters between old and worn editions of _Leaves of Grass_ and _Shakespeare’s complete works_.

They’ve done this before, this dancing around each other and not admitting what’s actually going on. He thinks he’s used to this by now, that it doesn’t bother him. Being tied down by a relationship isn’t something that fits into their lifestyles. Their lives are about running and hiding and always being a step ahead. Arthur’s always been better at this game, but this time Eames doesn’t feel like he’s only a second behind, but a whole turn of a century. It’s not a feeling Eames particularly likes. It makes him feel stupid for getting his hopes up in the first place. And feeling stupid makes Eames angry and leads to rushed decisions.

Which is why Eames has no idea how he managed it, but finally he finds Arthur in a sticky apartment in downtown New York. It’s four o’clock on a Tuesday and Eames hears the siren of an ambulance and screaming children through the thin walls, but he doesn’t pay attention to these sounds. His whole focus is on Arthur, who looks as if every single thought has fled his mind when he finds Eames standing on his doorstep. Eames ignores him and brushes past him into the tiny apartment.

“I want an explanation, you fucker,” he says once he firmly stands in what is probably Arthur’s living room. It looks more like something crawled in here and died. Later on, Eames will look back and see the first clue.

“I don’t care what you want. I didn’t invite you,” Arthur replies coldly and crosses his arms in front of his chest. He’s wearing a loose sweater, but still rubs his arms like he’s trying to get warm while Eames is practically dying in his t-shirt. It’s clue number two, but Eames doesn’t see anything but red at that particular moment.

“So you just love ‘em and leave ‘em or what?”

Arthur snorts. “Who said anything about love? More like a convenient fuck, if you really have to put a name on it.”

Eames literally flinches away from the man he thought he knew. It shouldn’t hurt that bad, he thinks. It shouldn’t feel like Arthur had just shot him in real life, but this -- this is new. Arthur can be a cold-hearted bastard if he has to. Eames has witnessed some of these occasions and they were never pretty. At least not for the other party involved. Now to be on the receiving end of his heartless snarl and steady glare is a new experience however. It doesn’t sit well with Eames.

“That what it was for you?” he asks angrily.

“I hope you didn’t expect breakfast in bed and a bouquet of roses?”

“No, what I expected was a little decency from you of all people. Seems like I was wrong and you’re just an asshole like everybody else. You’re only in it for your own fun.”

“I never promised anything,” Arthur says, but with less heat to his voice.

“I know that,” Eames barks. He’s furious, but more with himself than with Arthur. Because it’s him that can’t leave the point man behind, whose thoughts always return to Arthur, wondering, searching … and it thoroughly sucks to be the only one in a relationship. “But you know what, I will leave. Just like you want me to. Leave you all alone, so you can bask in your achievement of having made an utter fool out of me. I’m sorry that I ever expected anything from you, because obviously all you ever wanted was fun between the sheets when I thought there was something more between us.” When he’s finished he feels exhausted, stupid and embarrassed. You don’t go and pour your heart out to the one person who will burn and dance around it. “Well, fuck it,” he finally says, runs a hand over his tired eyes and walks past Arthur and out of the apartment.

It’s twenty minutes past four o’clock on a Tuesday in a dingy hallway in downtown New York when Eames stops dead in his tracks. This is not right, he thinks. Arthur hadn’t said anything back. No snarl. No rude remark. No joke. Nothing. He had just stood there and taken it all. Eames returns on the spot and walks right through the still open door of Arthur’s apartment. He only stops when he’s standing in front of Arthur who hasn’t moved an inch in the meantime. “Okay, you know what? I take it back. No fuck it.”

“Eames -- “

“Shut up -- no, wait, don’t shut up, but tell me the truth. What’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says and blinks like he’s only now realizing that Eames is really back.

“You do realize that your tone wouldn’t convince a two year-old?” Eames says and stretches his hand out to touch Arthur, but the other man jerks away from him. It still hurts, but Eames is determined to get to the bottom of this. Cobb may have been their extractor, but Eames is a quick learner. “Tell me the truth Arthur … please,” he whispers. “If you really want me gone and I was nothing more than a fling I’ll do as you say, but don’t lie to me. Not about this.”

For the longest time Arthur simply stares at him, as if he tries to see something Eames isn’t so sure he actually possesses. It scares him to death, but he meets Arthur’s eyes head-on. This is too important to chicken out now. Finally, Arthur nods and walks away. Dumbstruck, Eames isn’t sure what to do at first, but then he follows him. A few steps later he’s inside the bedroom where Arthur has sat down on the bed, his face turned away from Eames.

“I’m sick,” Arthur says quietly without any outward emotion. “Have been for some months now. The doctors say it’s one of the early Somnacin mixes I tried out for the military.”

“But surely you’re getting treatment,” Eames croaks. This can’t be. Anything but this. Arthur still isn’t looking at him.

“It’s terminal, Eames. And the only thing they have is highly experimental. I feel badly as it is, I don’t need another experimental drug to make everything even worse. Better to just wait for the end in peace.”

Eames feels sucker-punched. He feels sick. He feels a billion of emotions he can’t put in words, so he sits down next to Arthur and their shoulders touch.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers and a strangled sob escapes him. “I didn’t want to burden you with this, it’s just … I’m tired, Eames, really tired.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, darling,” Eames says and his voice sounds like broken glass. “And it’s okay to be tired and scared, but you’re not alone in this, you hear me? I won’t leave. Whatever you say, I won’t leave.” Arthur doesn’t say anything, but he leans his head against Eames shoulder and Eames runs his hand through Arthur’s hair with gentle strokes. “And I won’t let you leave me either,” Eames whispers.

It’s another Tuesday six months later and the first spring flowers have begun to appear. There’s still some gray snow left in dark corners, but from time to time the sun manages to break through the clouds. It’s early in the morning when Eames gets up and makes breakfast. He makes coffee and tea, smears toast and bagels; he even puts some grapes and an apple on the tray. Eames hums under his breath when he takes the tray and carries it to the bedroom.

“Morning, darling,” he says and smiles, because Arthur growls at him from under the sheets. Arthur could probably yell at him or throw his favorite tea cup against the wall and Eames would still be smiling, because all of this means only one thing -- that Arthur lives. And he will continue doing so.

They’ve faced and survived more than thirty Tuesdays when Arthur didn’t growl. When the only thing he did was breathing and sometimes even that seemed too much, or when he was sick the whole day, or too tired to eat. But these days are over. Now they have Tuesdays with endless possibilities. Hell, they can even build a snowman with the last snow if they want -- which Arthur probably doesn’t, because it would be a _snowman_. Eames doesn’t mind. He’s content to have lots of Tuesdays ahead of him, with Arthur by his side.

“I made breakfast,” Eames says happily and kisses Arthur, when he finally emerges from under the sheets.

\- _fin_


End file.
